


all things heal

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Beaches, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, M/M, Margaritas, Pre-Slash, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:54:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: The downtime had lasted all of two days. He’d been relaxing on the beach this morning, letting the early rays of the sun soak his skin. Then he’d gotten up to reach for the sunscreen before the light got any more intense, and he’d found himself on the wrong end of a gun.A gun held by the Winter. Fucking. Soldier.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 16
Kudos: 194





	all things heal

**Author's Note:**

> filling my sunburn square for CBBBB

“Just so you know,” Clint says as he twists in the handcuffs wrapped around his wrists, “you are absolutely _ruining_ my beach vacation.”

The Winter Soldier just stares at him. He’s got the mask and goggles on, so Clint can’t see his expression, but his body language is pretty much screaming _you’re a fucking idiot._ His hand drifts over to his gun, the threat clear.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are,” Clint says, which gets him an eyebrow raise in response. “You’re really not. I’ve got a friend who out-scaries you by like...ten million.” He taps his fingers in the handcuffs and contemplates if it’s worth trying to slip out of them, or if he should just see what happens.

It’s not fair, really. He hadn’t even been looking for trouble. He’d just wanted to spend a few days relaxing on a beach, eat some decent food, maybe try some surfing or something. It had been a long week, and a longer month, and an even longer year, and he’d just wanted some fucking downtime. So he’d pitched his SHIELD phone in a trash can and used a couple burner IDs to fly his way to Tuvalu---a place he’d never even heard of before this, but was already kind of in love with.

The downtime had lasted all of two days. He’d been relaxing on the beach this morning, letting the early rays of the sun soak his skin. Then he’d gotten up to reach for the sunscreen before the light got any more intense, and he’d found himself on the wrong end of a gun.

A gun held by the Winter. Fucking. Soldier.

There’d been a brief scuffle, but Clint had been too surprised and too unprepared to really have a chance. The Soldier had pinned him easily, slapped a pair of handcuffs around his wrists, and shoved him onto the blanket with a stern, “Don’t move.”

So now he’s still sitting here on the blanket, his pale skin crisping in the bright sunlight, desperately trying to think of ways to get out of this. The Soldier hasn’t moved since dropping Clint onto the blanket, although Clint’s pretty sure if he tries to make a break for it, the guy will catch him in two seconds flat. He’s not even sure what the hell they’re waiting for, not like the guy had called anything in. He’d just dropped Clint, then stepped back a safe distance and started waiting.

Clint scowls and glances around. He’d picked this stretch of beach because it was empty, and he’d wanted to be left alone. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to show up, much less the world’s most deadly assassin.

He kicks a spray of sand at the guy. “Hey. Robocop.”

The Soldier looks down at him and tilts his head. Then he reaches up and pulls the mask off, tucking it into his tactical vest. “What,” he says, his voice lower than Clint was expecting.

His jawline is also better than Clint was expecting, all strong lines and stubble. Clint has to force himself to negotiate for his life instead of staring at it.

“Three things,” Clint says, because he likes to push his luck. “One, what the fuck are we waiting for? Two, can you put my sunglasses on me, because it’s really fucking bright out here. And three, any chance we can migrate to that shady spot over there? Because I’m getting a hell of a sunburn, and I didn’t have time to put stuff on before you so rudely interrupted my vacation.”

The Soldier stares down at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t respond for a long time, long enough that Clint gives up and goes back to plotting an escape, squinting his eyes against the increasing brightness of the sun. The handcuffs are loose enough that he can slip them, although he’s not really looking forward to dislocating his thumb for it. But if he can get his hands free, then maybe he can---

His sunglasses slam onto his face, and he nearly falls over at the shock of it. “Ah,” he says, shaking them into place, and looking up at the Soldier. “Uh. Thank you.”

The Soldier looks around, then reaches down and grabs Clint’s arm, yanking him up. He marches them both over to the shade of a nearby palm tree, then shoves him to the ground again. “Stay.”

“Okay...” Clint says, instantly relieved at the coolness of the shade. His arms are already bright red, he can tell through the sunglasses. He’s gonna be feeling this one for a while. “Well. Thanks again.”

The Soldier nods. “You are welcome,” he murmurs.

Clint shifts on the sand, not really sure what to do now. “So...can you tell me what we’re waiting for?”

The Soldier bites his lip, then pulls off his goggles. He looks...nervous, almost. Scared. And weirdly familiar, too, although Clint’s not entirely sure why.

“I don’t know,” he says after a moment.

“Don’t know...”

“What I’m waiting for.”

Clint huffs out a laugh. “So...what? You put me in handcuffs, hold a gun to my head, and now we’re supposed to just sit here and stare at each other for the rest of time?”

The Soldier blinks, then shakes his head. “You...” he starts, then shakes his head. “You are Clint Barton. Hawkeye.”

“Yeah.”

“The Battle of New York,” he says. “You were not yourself for that.”

Clint stares at him. “Yeah,” he says, a little off-guard. “I was---Loki got me. Turned me into one of his guys. Brainwashed me.”

“Your mind was not your own.”

“I guess you could say that, yeah.” Clint swallows, shifting on the sand. His arms hurt from the sunburn, skin already feeling stretched tight. “I don’t...why does that matter?”

The Soldier looks old, suddenly, the weight of years visible in his eyes. “How did you get out?”

“Got hit really hard in the head.” Clint studies him. “Why?”

There’s no answer, but Clint knows that look. The pain on his face. It’s the same pain he sees when he’s looking in a mirror after a nightmare, the anger and self-hatred bleeding out of him. It doesn’t matter how many times Nat tells him it wasn’t his fault. He can still feel his hands pulling the bowstring, can still taste the satisfaction at seeing his arrows hit the targets. Can still feel the pride of returning to Loki with what he’d asked for, and how Loki had praised him for it.

So yeah. He knows that look. He knows it way too well.

“Hey,” he says, and the Soldier meets his eyes. “You like margaritas?”

The Soldier stares at him, like this was the last thing he’d ever expected to hear. “I...”

“I’ll buy,” Clint says. “I know a place here. They’re really good.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t...I’ve never had one.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Clint shrugs. “Tell you what. How about you get these cuffs off me and we go try one? Have a drink, maybe talk for a little bit, just kinda see what happens?”

The Soldier continues to stare at him, blue-grey eyes swimming with confusion.

“I promise not to go anywhere,” Clint says. “We can give this a shot, and if you decide it’s not your thing, we can come right back here and keep staring at each other.”

That startles a smile out of the Soldier. It’s small, and uncertain, but it’s there, and Clint smiles back at him. “That sound like something you’re up for?”

The Soldier looks uncertain for a moment. Then he nods, short and sharp, and takes a handcuff key from his pocket. He pulls Clint up from the ground, easy as anything, and unlocks the cuffs. “Your arms are pink,” he murmurs.

“Sunburns will do that.” Clint holds his arms out, turning them over to examine them. “I’ve had worse, anyway. Everything heals at some point.”

“I hope so,” the Soldier mutters cryptically, pocketing the handcuffs.

“So what do I call you?” Clint asks, going over to grab his bag, trying not to think about how surreal it is that he’s about to get margaritas with the world’s deadliest assassin.

“The handlers call me Asset,”

“That’s a shit name. Got a better one?”

The Soldier bites his lip, then in a questioning voice says, “Bucky?”

“What, you’re not sure?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Clint taps his fingers on the strap of his bag, then shrugs. “Okay. We’ll stick with Bucky, then.” He sticks out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Clint.”

Bucky takes it, an amused look on his face, his grip strong and steady. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, then looks around. “Where are these...margaritas?”

“Follow me,” Clint says, and leads the way across the sand, heading towards the cluster of buildings in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta'ed as always by the lovely [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/pseuds/clintscoffeepot). Thank you!


End file.
